


What Happens...

by cuethe_pulse



Category: One Piece
Genre: Body Horror, M/M, Temporary Character Death, Unexplained Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-28
Updated: 2013-07-28
Packaged: 2017-12-21 16:13:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/902273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuethe_pulse/pseuds/cuethe_pulse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You know those stories about Sanji making a huge sacrifice to save some idiotic swordsman? This is one of those.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Happens...

The day after Zoro died, Sanji came back to the ship with fingers missing.

He didn’t stop to answer any questions, didn’t look anyone in the eye. He went to the infirmary without pause, staring unblinking at the body that still lay covered on the bed. Both hands clutched handkerchiefs—once white, now stained a wet red. Blood continued to drip onto the wood beneath his feet and Chopper fussed around it, tugging at his pants and asking what was wrong, what happened, where had he gone off to and why were his hands bleeding and please, please, just say something.

“Wait.”

“Wait?” Chopper’s eyes were threatening to water and by this point it was almost surprising that he had any tears left, he had to wonder how many more times he would cry, how many more horrible things were going to happen. “Wait for what? Sanji, you’re hurt!”

“ _Wait_.” His voice was strained into a whisper and he wasn’t breathing. His hands were fisted in ruined cloth and his breath was held inside and he waited, waited, while everything around him turned dizzying and through the haze there was just that motionless body on the bed and he waited and—

—it moved. With a sudden, gasping cough, Zoro moved beneath the sheet they’d draped over him with sobs both stifled and open. He moved and he breathed, and so did Sanji.

* * *

His left thumb, his right middle and ring finger, were gone. When Zoro had stopped coughing up the blood that was pumping through his body again, Chopper had bandaged Sanji’s hands quickly. He’d wanted to do more, he’d wanted to talk about it, but Sanji had shoved him back to the semi-conscious swordsman. Priorities.

He escaped to the galley in the chaos that followed when everyone else found out what was going on. There were dishes in the sink from a lunch he hadn’t prepared, a wilted lettuce leaf and grains of rice stuck to the rims of plates; he could smell mikan vinaigrette clinging to the air.

Dinner, he thought, and he looked at his hands.

Nami found him before long. Her face showed signs of sleeplessness and her hair hadn’t been washed and she was wearing a large shirt that didn’t show off her body at all but she’d found it in the back of Zoro’s locker and hadn’t let go of it.

She was beautiful. But he barely lifted his head, even when she asked, “Where did you go?”

“Ah…” He took a long, stalling breath and wished he had a cigarette in his mouth. “My apologies for missing lunch. I hope it wasn’t too much of a burden on you and Ro—”

“Sanji, what did you do?”

He stood in silence for a moment, while pain pounded in his knuckles, and he started, “There was a magic man in town. I _think_ he was a man. I’m not sure. I guess it doesn’t matter…”

“You’re right, it doesn’t.” She was losing patience. “What did you _do_?”

“I made a deal.”

“What kind of deal?” she asked, sounding like she wasn’t sure she wanted to know, like she might already have an idea and how could she not when his hands were still bleeding.

“I bought him more time.”

She stared at him and he finally looked at her and she ran her palms, slowly, down her face. “Sanji…”

He didn’t want to argue with her, but he was prepared to defend himself if he had to. He didn’t want her, didn’t want anyone, to think he wasn’t proud of what he’d done.

She walked over to him and his shoulders stiffened as he waited for her to yell at him. Instead, her fingers curled gently around his wrists. “C’mon. You need more than bandages.”

“I’ll be fine, Nami-san, and Chopper’s busy—”

“Sanji, right now I feel like hugging you. Don’t make me change my mind.”

* * *

Zoro didn’t remember his death.

He remembered the marines, the ship they’d try to outmaneuver for hours before Nami had given her permission (and who needed _her_ permission anyway?) to go and fight them off. He remembered he’d taken down more men than Sanji had, important details like that. But nothing else.

“So what happened?” he asked, and it took a lot of effort, and he didn’t know why, didn’t know why his body felt so _tired_. He’d just woken up so obviously he’d been resting, right?

“Well…” Chopper hesitated and touched his arm. (He _kept_ touching him, like he was checking to see if he was still there.) “You were shot.”

“Ah.” So that’s what it was. Well, it happens.

“In…in the heart.”

“Ah.” Wait. “Huh?”

“You were dead.”

“…Ah.”

He supposed that explained some things, like why Chopper was suddenly sobbing on him.

* * *

Robin wrapped the new bandages around his knuckle nubs, now clean and sporting stitches and blessedly no longer bleeding.

“What, exactly, is the deal?” Usopp asked, brow furrowed.

“Just what I said.” Sanji’s voice was far too calm, far too even. “I gave up three fingers, Zoro got three years.”

Somewhere off to the side, Franky was sniffling.

Usopp didn’t look quite so moved. “What happens when the three years are over?” Sanji shrugged one shoulder and his expression hardened. “You’re saying you lost your fingers for the rest of your life just to bring him back for a few years?”

“You saying you wouldn’t do the same?”

“I’m saying I don’t really want to see him die _again_ —”

“I guess I’m just not as selfish as—”

“ _Hey_.” Nami all but hissed at them. “Knock it off.”

The others followed her eyes as she glanced over at Luffy, who sat frowning out one of the galley portholes. He’d had this look on his face, like everything anyone said made his head hurt, since the moment he’d frantically felt for Zoro’s heartbeat, ten different times in ten different spots, and realized that his swordsman was gone.

They fell silent, Usopp with some reluctance and Sanji with some relief, and they remained that way until Franky, whose eyes were _totally_ dry, guys, asked, “So who wants to tell Zoro this?”

* * *

“Where is he?”

Chopper shifted nervously from his spot guarding the infirmary door, Robin even chose to inspect the jars and vials on the reindeer doctor’s desk; Luffy was the only one who held Zoro’s furious gaze.

“ _Where is he?_ ”

“Zoro,” Chopper’s voice was barely loud enough to be heard. “Please take it easy.”

Despite being dead that morning, Zoro was obviously determined not to lose the title of worst patient on board. But the moment he started trying to stand, Luffy’s hands were pushing him back down, mindful, but firm. He glared over his captain’s shoulder; it was too hard to look at Luffy’s expression directly.

“He’s been through a lot today,” Robin said.

“Yeah, well, that was his own decision, wasn’t it?” Zoro all but snarled. “No one asked him to do this!”

“He loves you.” A heavy word none of them had voiced the night before, but their hearts had been breaking.  Robin could still feel some of that leftover ache, even as she saw him now, saw his chest moving. “As we all do.”

Any other day, Zoro would’ve argued, would’ve insisted that the cook hated him. But he knew better. Knew, but was too furious for that to be good enough.

“His _fingers_ ,” he said, like no one realized, like no one understood what that meant. “How the hell is he supposed to—” He stopped, voice stuck somewhere as he thought about Sanji, saw him in the galley chopping, whisking, stirring, smiling. “He’s a _cook_ , dammit!”

No one said anything, and he finally looked to Luffy, looked for some acceptance of his anger. And once there, he couldn’t look away; Luffy’s stare was too intense, too full of something he couldn’t quite name yet.

“Zoro,” the name came out shaky, thick. “I couldn’t get him.”

“What?”

“The bastard that shot you.” Luffy’s hands were white fists on the edge of the infirmary bed. “He got away.”

Zoro frowned, suddenly placing the feeling he saw on the man’s face, and not liking it. “It’s all right, Luffy.”

His head shook and lowered, dark hair hiding what Zoro didn’t want to see. “No. I couldn’t…”

Zoro let out a slow breath. He didn’t want this, he wanted to be angry. But he had to put that on hold, he had to put his captain first. “Oi. I said it’s all right.”

He reached for him, touched his shoulder, and Luffy crumpled into him. He didn’t notice when Robin and Chopper left them alone. Didn’t know how long they spent in there, Luffy sobbing dryly into his bandages.

* * *

They found the Astounding Laz deep in town. The deceptively small shop was hidden between abandoned buildings, across from a fruit stand that drew a surprisingly large crowd, despite the tucked away location. The stall’s sign announcing it had the island’s “greatest selection” must’ve been what brought their cook here, Nami surmised, and from there…

“‘The dead, alive again’,” Usopp read aloud from the shop’s darkened window.  “Well, that’s—that’s pretty straightforward, huh?”

“Hm.” Nami worried her bottom lip between her teeth for a moment, then headed for the shop’s door. “Come on.”

“W-wait, uh. It doesn’t look like it’s open, m-maybe we should—”

The knob turned easily beneath her hand and she shot Usopp an impatient glance over her shoulder before going inside. He steadied his knees and followed.

The shop was lit with candles and smelled of something strong that made Nami’s nose wrinkle. They maneuvered around the items for sell, the wind chimes, incense, bloodstone and carnelian. The Astounding Laz was in the back, an ambiguous figure wrapped in a blue robe, bald, with calm and waiting eyes.

“Yes?”

“You saw someone today,” Nami said, not a question. “A man. Blonde, suit.”

“Would’ve had ten fingers when he came in,” Usopp muttered.

“Yes.” Laz nodded.

“And you made a deal with him.”

“Yes.”

“And you…” She swallowed down the words and tried again with new words, firmer. “How did you do it?”

A slow grin crept across Laz’s face, shoulders shrugging eloquently. “Magic.”

Nami’s lips pursed in annoyance. “A Devil’s Fruit?”

“Magic.”

Usopp shook his head with a sigh. “Okay, okay, don’t tell us.”

“All right, forget how you did it,” Nami snapped. “What’s supposed to happen now? What happens when the years are over?”

Laz’s grin faded, eyebrows lifted in mild surprise. “He didn’t tell you?”

“Why do you think we’re here?”

“To ask for a refund.”

“Do you _give_ refunds?” Usopp asked, briefly stepping out from behind the navigator, and gosh, when did he get back there, anyway.

“If you want the raised to fall down dead again.”

He shuddered at the thought. “Ah. I see. No thank you.”

“ _What_ —” Exasperation escaped Nami’s throat in a growl. “—didn’t he tell us?”

“There’s a potion I made.” Laz said, looking around, as if checking to make sure it wasn’t still there somewhere.

“A potion.”

“Your friend told me the man died in battle.”

“That’s right.” Nami tried not to remember, tried to keep the fresh memory back. Zoro’s blood, it’d seemed to be everywhere, his clothes, the deck, the swords she and Sanji had ended up cleaning that night; blood everywhere except where it should’ve been.

“Then it’s simple.” Laz settled down into a chair, seeing their discussion coming to a close. “The potion needs to be consumed by the one responsible for his death.”

Nami felt her face tighten in frustration, in confusion, why the hell wouldn’t Sanji tell them— “And then what?”  
  
“Then he’ll continue to live.”

* * *

The potion was the same blue color as the Astounding Laz’s robes, and Sanji held the glass vial between his index finger and remaining thumb as he tilted it this way and that, looking at it as if looking would explain everything, would reassure him it would work.

But Zoro was alive, breathing again, and he wondered if he really needed more reassurance than that.

Opening his locker hurt. He seemed to feel the throbbing everywhere. The pain was fresh. It hadn’t hurt when it happened. Shock, probably. Or that shitty magic. He didn’t know. But after leaving the infirmary with the sound of Zoro’s gasps in his ear, it’d hit him. It was an angry pain, his body screaming at him for what he’d done, what he’d willingly lost.

He resisted the sting in the corners of his eye, refusing to break down. He pushed aside the clothes in his locker, the packs of cigarettes, books, the gun he sometimes forgot he had, photos he’d brought from the Baratie.

He hid the vial in the back, behind it all.

* * *

Sanji was up early the next morning, like always. His foot was on the third step on the way up to the galley before he remembered. Usopp would be making breakfast. The ladies would be making lunch. Dinner would be for anyone who volunteered. Anyone except him.

He sat down on the step and wanted a cigarette. He refused to look at his hands. He looked out at the ocean and watched the sun rise and told himself it would be fine. The bandages would come off and it would take getting used to but he would learn how to cook with seven fingers and it would be fine.

He heard a door open and close, then footsteps on the deck. His shoulders tensed. He forced them to relax as the footsteps drew closer behind him and stopped. He could feel the eyes on him, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up beneath the stare. He turned his head as casually as he could manage, but felt a tightening in his throat when he saw him, standing there.

A silence passed between their eyes; indifference-masked nerves on one end, steely frustration on the other.

Zoro broke away first. Jaw set, he started walking again, passing by without a word as he went down the steps and kept on to the men’s bunkroom.

He really wanted a cigarette.

* * *

They left the island that afternoon. Luffy had wanted, briefly, to go into town and meet the Astounding Laz for himself, but Nami and Usopp talked him out of it, insisted they should just happily accept that Zoro was back and it was a mystery, and that was that. The potion that Sanji had neglected to mention was kept a secret for the two of them, a shared glance when everyone’s backs were turned.

They argued over whether or not throwing a Welcome Back From Death party was appropriate while Zoro rested. (“Just a nap,” he told them; he felt _fine_.) Everyone was either looking at Sanji or being painfully obvious about _not_ looking at Sanji, and he lost count of how many times he insisted that he was in the mood for a celebration; he felt _fine_.

Those in favor of the party won in the end, and though no one spoke it aloud, they all knew the reason was their captain’s grin; they hadn’t realized how much they’d missed it until they saw it.

Sanji planned the menu and stayed in the galley to watch for as long as he could stand. The lack of cigarettes in his pocket brought him to the men’s bunk and his hands fumbled with a new pack. His craving for nicotine had his head thrumming and he was trying to figure out which fingers could do what, juggling the idea of the pack, the lighter, the cigarette itself, piecing together how this process would go now, and there was a whine in the back of his throat.

“Give it to me.”

Sanji stopped himself from jumping, startled by Zoro’s voice, but his heart rate picked up and went off somewhere he couldn’t possibly catch it. “Shit, don’t just sneak up on people, idiot!”

Zoro just looked at him, with the same face from that morning, and held out his hand.

“Ah, no, I can—”

The swordsman cut him off wordlessly, snatching the pack from him. “Lighter,” he said, and waited while Sanji retrieved it, his other palm open.

The fingers of Sanji’s left hand accepted the cigarette that Zoro slipped between them and Sanji told himself that the way they shook came from impatience. He didn’t waste a second once it was lit, immediately taking a grateful drag. God, he’d needed this. His eyes closed in relief, briefly, opening them at the sound of the pack, the lighter, being tossed onto the table. Zoro had already turned from him, already walking away.

“Oi,” he started, though he didn’t know what he’d say.

“I’m not doing that again.”

Sanji bristled. “No one asked you to, ass—”

Zoro’s head whipped around and Sanji knew the swordsman was displeased with him, knew he probably would be for a while, but the strength of the _fury_ in his dark eyes still killed his voice, still made his blood run cold.

Neither of them said anything else, and Zoro left. Sanji’s fingers were trembling again, and he found that the cigarette hadn’t helped as much as he’d hoped it would.

He skipped the party, and no one asked him why.

* * *

In the days that followed, Zoro’s company was in high demand.

His help was requested in Usopp’s factory or Franky’s workshop, for tasks that he soon found were unnecessary. Nami promised a (slight) decrease in interest rates if he’d paint her toenails for her. Robin beckoned him to the library where she’d marked pages in books that might interest him. Chopper’s big eyes and small hooves tugged him toward _Sunny_ ’s swing. Luffy’s demands for playtime, while not new, were insistent. Zoro tolerated them all for as long as he could stand until he demanded to be left alone. He found quiet places to take naps, but even there, Brook was nearby, offering to play lullabies.

The only one who didn’t seek him out was Sanji, and he was glad for that.

* * *

Even when they were no longer necessary, Sanji continued to wear his bandages. The others were already unnecessarily careful around him. Seeing what his hands had become wouldn’t help any.

He didn’t know where to spend his time. Not being in his kitchen was painful, but being in his kitchen was worse. Chopper promised he could start his rehab in a week, two, tops, but even then he wouldn’t be able to do what he really wanted, not for a while.

“You’ve been cooking all your life,” Chopper said in one check-up, soothing. “It won’t take as long as you’re worried it will.”

Well, until then he felt like he was floating uselessly from one end of the ship to the other, treated like glass by most and completely ignored by the idiot man he—

He opened the door to the men’s bunk with one frustrated kick, startling the two who were standing in front of his open locker.

Their guilty expressions as they stepped back from it didn’t last very long. (Or, rather, Nami’s didn’t. Usopp’s was a bit harder to see as he assumed his most effective position—hiding behind her. The cook’s feet were still fully functional, after all.) “We know about the potion.”

Sanji had been getting better at keeping himself calm these days. He only bothered now because it was Nami standing there. Nami, who was still wearing Zoro’s shirt when she was alone on late night watch. He refused to be angry with her, and when he felt it bubbling up inside of him he stomped it down. He ignored the way his foot tapped at the floor, itching to teach Usopp a lesson about respecting privacy, and when was the last time he’d gotten to just _kick someone_ anyway, not since he’d been on that marine ship, not since that day—

“Ah, I should have expected Nami-san to be so brilliantly thorough,” he said through a honeyed smile that she didn’t return.

“It’s in there, isn’t it?” She nodded toward the locker; they hadn’t gotten very far. She almost ordered Usopp to keep looking, but she could hear him muttering into her shoulder, something about an “if-I-move-my-rib-cage-will-shatter” disease. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

“Nami-san shouldn’t have to worry about this.”

Irritation twisted her mouth, speckled her eyes. She glanced at the cook’s bandages, needing to remind herself why she was holding back, why she wasn’t throttling him. “Dammit, Sanji—”

“Laz told us,” Usopp interjected, surprised that it only earned him a small glare from the other man, “that if the potion—if it’s done before the third year you could even get your fingers back.”

“…I know.” Sanji went to his locker, avoiding their confused, questioning stares, somewhat awkwardly picking up the belongings they’d tossed out and returning them to their proper places.

“Then _why_ wouldn’t you want us to know?” Nami was nearly whispering to keep from screaming and she could feel herself wanting to cry and she could feel herself shaking, shaking until Usopp’s hands were on her arms, settling her long enough to take a deep breath. “ _Please_ , Sanji,” she said, then, weary, wondering when all of this would truly be over, “we’re just trying to understand.”

Sanji closed the locker softly, pressed his forehead against the metal for a moment. “I’m sorry, Nami-san.” And he was. “But…I ask that you leave this to me.”

* * *

For several nights, Sanji hadn’t dreamed. Memories visited his sleeping mind instead, memories of that day. It was like he was permanently stuck there, in those moments, on the deck of the marine ship.

They were keeping count, the two of them, the way they did when they were fighting someone who wasn’t good enough to hold their attention. Trying to outdo the other because it was fun, because the day was just _boring_ until they’d gotten under each other’s skin, riled each other up, _somehow_. Because that was just them, how they worked, and making the stoic swordsman scowl or flush was just as satisfying as making one of his ladies smile.

Kick to the solar plexus. “Eight!” Heel to the jaw. “Nine!”

“Ten.” Zoro grinned around the blade in his mouth. “Looks like I’m winning this round.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, cocky bastard,” Sanji hissed at him, and somewhere amid the overlapping sounds of battle there was a deep chuckle in response.

The worst part of remembering this moment was knowing he couldn’t do better, knowing he was going to watch himself fail over and over and over again. He wasn’t paying attention. The marine was down, but not out, and he’d been too busy crowing about how they were even, too set on finding his number eleven to realize what he’d done wasn’t good enough.

Zoro’s back was turned for too long, and Sanji wasn’t watching it.

It wasn’t until after, after Zoro didn’t get up, that Sanji memorized the marine’s face. Everything, from the slope of his nose to the pattern of the freckles on his forehead; he would never forget it. And he would never forget the way Zoro looked, completely unconcerned as he bled out, like he just _knew_ that it was nothing, that as long as they got him to Chopper he’d be fine, and then his eyes closed and minutes, seconds, later he was dead.

It was his fault, and he would never forget that, either.

* * *

For the first week, Zoro’s training was limited and carefully monitored. He sat on _Sunny_ ’s railing, keeping silent count as he idly raised, lowered one dumbbell that was much smaller than he would’ve liked. At Chopper’s request, Robin was seated in a chair nearby to watch him while she read; but he could still feel the reindeer doctor’s strict stare from the other end of the deck—at least, until his other patient stepped out of the galley with a tray of drinks balanced on his left hand.

“Sanji!” There was Chopper’s Fussing Over Voice, which Zoro knew very well.

“Don’t worry, it’s just cucumber water.” And there was the voice of the man whose existence Zoro was pointedly ignoring. “And Nami-san did all the work, though it broke my heart to pieces to see her do so! Such lovely hands should be resting—”

“ _Your_ hands should be resting!” Chopper interrupted him, chiding. “Here, let someone else do that!”

“No, Chopper, just—” A break, where he bit back a word Zoro knew from experience; _please_. “I can do this much.”

The desperation, the need for some sense of normalcy and purpose, was faint, but Zoro could hear it, and his arm stalled in mid-lift. He didn’t realize he was holding his breath until Chopper reluctantly conceded.

Though obviously relieved, Sanji didn’t drag the task out, and Zoro doubted it was out of respect for their doctor’s wishes. He soon made his way to him and Robin, spouting flowery phrases to the latter which the swordsman tuned out, and then—

“Oi, marimo.”

The words were softer than Zoro wanted them to be, and made him angry, and he didn’t look away from the sea. Still, his free hand took the proffered glass, only because he knew the cook’s bandaged thumb (or whatever was left) had to be throbbing under the weight. He left without lingering and Zoro resumed his count.

“I’ve noticed,” Robin said, after he’d gone, “you’re still giving him the silent treatment.”

“Pretty sure everyone’s noticed,” Zoro grunted. “Doesn’t exactly earn you a medal.”

There was nothing more for a moment, and then another, and then several hands were sprouting and wrenching the dumbbell away from him. He turned his head to glare at her, but she’d never been afraid of him, and she wasn’t now.

“I want to make sure you are truly thinking about what he’s done for you.”

He didn’t say anything, didn’t alter his expression, and she dropped the weight back into his palm. He looked back at the water, frowning at her ridiculous statement.

How the hell could he possibly think about anything else?

* * *

A week later, Sanji was allowed to make sandwiches. Franky helped him and Sanji kept from barking at him to back off while Franky bit his tongue at the cook’s slow pace. It wasn’t enough for Sanji, and it showed, and the compliments given were excessive; he barely listened.

After, Zoro stayed in the galley. Sanji felt a nervous, questioning itch that he couldn’t scratch, but the swordsman crossed his arms behind his head and closed his eyes—a sign he would have to wait awhile before getting any answers.

The dishwashing was the one thing Sanji let Franky do without any protest. “You know, cook-bro,” he said, “you can always come to me if you’re up for some super replacements.”

“Is being the only shitty cyborg around getting to you?” Sanji grinned a little, leaning against a counter. “I’m not sure I trust you to come up with something that isn’t completely outrageous.”

“Ah, c’mon!” A bit of soapy water splashed out of the sink in Franky’s excitement; Sanji stepped to the side with a hissed “oi, watch it”. “Just a few handy features! A retractable peeling knife, for example! Or a lighter!”

“Tempting,” he chuckled, though he wasn’t certain he was kidding. He attempted to penetrate the tension that was still hanging between him and Zoro, just as heavily as before. “Care to weigh in, marimo?” 

Nothing, but he expected nothing. No words offered. Posture, expression, unchanged. Nothing but the even, regular motion of his chest as he breathed.

Sanji tried to look unaffected and thought he succeeded, but Franky didn’t speak again and gave him what felt suspiciously like a consoling pat on the back when he left.

Sanji waited, didn’t follow, since _obviously_ Zoro wanted something. Prodding wouldn’t get him anywhere, so he busied himself. Lit a cigarette, which was still a longer process than he’d like to admit; robot fingers _would_ be useful. He inspected the cleaned dishes. Looked over the fridge’s contents. Took inventory in the pantry.

Zoro decided to talk just seconds before Sanji was ready to give up and start fucking pacing.

“Why three?” He asked, not finding the amusement in the cook’s surprised turn to look at him that he would’ve usually. He didn’t look like he understood the question immediately, which only irritated Zoro further. “Trying to be funny?”

Realization relaxed Sanji’s body and he smirked, slightly, around his cigarette. “Why, did you laugh when you heard?”

Zoro struggled to stay in his seat. He’d wanted to fight for days, to punch every single expression off the cook’s face. “You brought my swords back to the ship.”

“Yeah.” Sanji nodded, seemed to reconsider for a moment before explaining, “Luffy wouldn’t let you go.”

Zoro spoke over him. “Why’d you do it?”

“Why?” Confusion furrowed Sanji’s brow. “They’re your swords, I couldn’t leave them—”

“That’s not what I’m asking.”

“Are you expecting me to see into that mossy head of yours?”

Zoro stood so fast his head spun, but he didn’t notice, not with the anger coursing through him; his palms slammed on the table’s surface. “ _Why_?!”

Sanji didn’t flinch. His movements when he put out his cigarette were slow, collected. But his heart was racing so furiously he had to wonder if the other man noticed. (If he’d _ever_ noticed.)

“Why do you think, moron?” He ignored the way Zoro growled wordlessly at the not-answer. “The whole thing was too simple, anyway. Not nearly dramatic enough for the man who wants to be the world’s greatest swordsman. The man who faced Shichibukai and survived can’t just get killed by some lucky shot.”

“Are you still sore about what happened?” Zoro was moving, stepping around the table; Sanji watched him, faint tension in his legs, careful of the man’s dark, narrowing eyes. “This your way of settling the score, getting even?”

“Not sure I’d call it ‘even’,” he muttered under his breath, low, but not low enough.

Zoro was in front of him, all restrained passion. Sanji could _feel_ how much he wanted to hit him. “What the _fuck_ —” The word was barely a snarled whisper but it rattled in Sanji’s chest. “—were you thinking?” His hands jerked, like they wanted to reach for Sanji’s, but they didn’t. And Sanji watched as the blaze in his eyes shifted to the bandages he wore. “You _idiot_ cook.”

And there it was—Roronoa Zoro, the man who was willing to give up his life, his dream, for a boy in a straw hat, didn’t understand it. Couldn’t understand why someone would risk their livelihood, lose something precious—for him.

Sanji could feel all of his insides twisting, his stomach knotted and his chest compressed. But he didn’t shake, didn’t shudder, and didn’t shrink away from this, and his voice was miraculously still and solid when he said, “I love you.”

The anger left Zoro faster than he’d ever imagined it could, banished by a single word. It was the same word Robin had used, but it meant something different. The same, but more, he knew.

“You were dead,” Sanji continued, and he might’ve broken there, a little, because that had happened, he’d been gone and Sanji’d had no way of knowing he’d come back like this, not then. “I would’ve done _anything_.”

Zoro’s breathing changed, quickened, like his heart rate was trying to match Sanji’s own rapid pulse. He watched Zoro say nothing and he didn’t know for how long, but when the swordsman stepped back and left the galley, he slumped back, limp and exhausted, like he’d been standing for years.

He closed his eyes, tried to calm down. He’d always known the confession would leave him one day. He’d never expected much; he doubted Zoro even cared about that sort of thing. But sometimes he’d hoped—

“Shit,” he swore quietly, realizing his hands were on the counter behind him and he’d been putting his weight on them.

He let go and looked down at them, the pain he could practically _see_ pulsing beneath the cloth wrapped tight around his damaged digits. He knew that no matter how this turned out, it was worth it. He’d do it again, in a heartbeat.

The door opened and Zoro was back again, his face hard and unreadable. Sanji felt himself go both tense and weak with exhaustion at once.

“Look, marimo, I’m tired and I don’t feel like explaining myself anymore, so—”

“Shut up.”

Sanji frowned, and he didn’t feel like fighting either but a retort was still on his tongue, and then Zoro had crossed the room and he was there, standing in front of him again, so close. His hands, strong, firm, and sure, took hold of Sanji’s face and the cook barely had time to blush before Zoro kissed him.

* * *

Life aboard the ship felt much lighter after that.

Eventually, Chopper agreed to abandon his strict watch over them.  Zoro didn’t hesitate to return to his routine of disappearing into the Crow’s Nest to train for hours. Sanji was still offered help in the kitchen, which he sometimes declined. Meal preparations took a little longer, he made occasional mistakes that he could’ve kicked himself for, but when they were all seated at the table and he could see Zoro across from him, his frustrations didn’t feel so important.

* * *

There was no announcement of any sort, no official sharing of the new development between the two of them. Some of the others found out on their own. The rest did not and were either left clueless or informed by an amused whisper in their ear.

Brook was hidden by the dark when the swordsman and cook fell, tangled together, into what they thought was an empty men’s bunkroom; he joked for hours about blushing while lacking skin.

Chopper had fallen asleep in his swivel chair, waking up in time to see Zoro changing Sanji’s bandages (“You don’t even have to wear these now, you know.” “Who asked for your shitty opinion?”). He wasn’t entirely successful in stifling his gasp when the tips of the seven intact fingers were given the gentlest of kisses.

Robin simply sensed it in the way it was suddenly easier to breathe when they were both in the same room.

It was accepted quietly, easily, and there was a happiness spreading through the air that had been absent for far too long.

* * *

The bliss was put on hold the day a marine ship spotted them.

 _Sunny_ rocked at the force of cannonballs missing them and meeting the water, just slightly, just enough to make Usopp stumble as he hurried to return fire.

“Don’t they appreciate a work of art when they see one?” Franky griped from his spot at the wheel.

Luffy bounced eagerly at the railing, waiting for either the word from Nami or the ship to get closer, whichever came first. Beside him, Zoro drew his swords; Wadou was held firm between his teeth when he glanced over his shoulder to see Sanji emerge from the bunkroom and asked, “Oi, what took you?”

Sanji didn’t answer. He clutched at something hidden in his pocket and came to stand between the swordsman and captain. He tapped his foot on the deck six times before ordering, “You stay.”

“What?”

“ _Stay_.” Sanji spat the word , like he was angry, but all it took was one look for Zoro to figure him out. There was worry in him. Nervousness, even, maybe.

Zoro considered fighting, frowning heavily around the blade in his mouth before removing it, swords sheathed. “I’m not some damn dog,” he grumbled, walking away.

“Good boy,” Sanji called back at him, but he didn’t relax at all.

 

It wasn’t the right ship. Sanji had felt the difference in the wood beneath his feet and hadn’t needed to look at the faces of the men he’d kicked down.

After, when there was once again a safe stretch of ocean between the ships and things had calmed, he stood at the railing with the blue potion cradled in the fingers of his left hand. He’d taken it with him, but he shouldn’t have bothered. He knew…

“So that’s it?”

Zoro took the vial from him easily. He was proud of himself for not being outwardly startled by the voice suddenly so close to his ear. Was the swordsman really that good at sneaking up on him or did he just lose too much of himself in his thoughts?

“Eh?” He caught up quickly. “You...you know?”

Zoro nodded, eyes following the liquid as he turned the vial over and over, glass catching the sunlight. “Yeah.”

“That long nose bastard, I’ll—”

“Nami told me.”

“Oh, well, that’s all right,” he said, like it was, but it wasn’t, because now he would have to talk, would have to explain again.

“Why didn’t you say something?”

“Because it won’t matter.”

Zoro’s prodding was silent but Sanji could hear it clearly. He leaned into the ship’s railing, stretched his arms out over it, looked everywhere except at the man next to him. “We might meet that marine again. We might be able to pour this down his throat, but…” He paused, blew out a breath. “I’m the one who takes responsibility for what happened.”

Zoro was going to say something; he could sense it, so he hurried to quiet him, told him, “It’s going to be me, in the end. I’ve already planned—…” He closed his eyes, smiled a little. “Three years is enough time to find that sea.”

He didn’t realize when it happened. When he did, when he heard the distant plop of the glass vial hitting the water, he could’ve kicked himself. He should’ve known better. Zoro was lowering his throwing arm when he opened his eyes to look at him, his face desperate, disbelieving anger. His leg lashed out when he couldn’t think of words, and Zoro grabbed it, pulled at him, unbalanced him enough that his still-bandaged hands had to clasp at broad shoulders.

“Let go!”

“No.” Zoro’s grip tightened, held the cook’s leg at his waist, and leaned in. Words were growled against his mouth, “What kind of idiot are you if you think I’d actually let you do that?” A question that didn’t need an answer, and didn’t wait for one as Zoro kissed him, mad and bruising.

He released his leg when he drew back. “It’s stupid, anyway,” he said, and he was calm again, but no less firm, “all this about who’s responsible.”

“Well, look—” Sanji gestured uselessly toward where the potion had disappeared, like it still mattered, like there was still some chance. “For the shitty thing to work—”

“No one is responsible, solely. What happens, happens. It’s just life—or death. Whatever. It’s all as unpredictable as this ocean.”

Sanji huffed and turned away from him, from the water. “You can try and sound wise all you want, I’m still pissed at you, asshole.”

“You’re right, though.”

“Can I get that writing?”

“Do you _ever_ shut up?” Zoro’s arms slid around him from behind; he breathed into the fine hairs at the back of his neck. “Three years _is_ enough time. For me.” The cook trembled; it was minute, but he felt it and his heart thudded apologetically in response. “I can still do what I need to. And I’m grateful to you,” he whispered, kissed the skin just beneath the collar of Sanji’s shirt. “But we’re leaving it at that.”

“Let go of me.” His voice cracked, and Zoro pretended not to hear.

“You’re not giving up anything else for me. Got it?”

Sanji exhaled, shaky, full of resistance. Resisting the urge to jump overboard and scour the bottom of the ocean floor for that bottled punishment he deserved. Resisting the need to cry. He clenched his hands and it almost hurt.

“Sanji.”

“I heard you!” he snapped, and he took a moment to make sure the sob that still wanted to escape was properly swallowed down. “What do you expect me to do, then?”

Zoro’s hands moved to turn him; Sanji let him and his lips were yielding when Zoro kissed them again. He didn’t give him an answer.

* * *

The night was unremarkable. The sky was very clear and Usopp was pointing out constellations, with Nami correcting him, and Luffy mostly not listening to either of them. Chopper was sleeping in Robin’s lap and the ship was being serenaded by a cyborg and a skeleton’s guitar and violin duet.

Everything was nice but not particularly extraordinary, and Sanji had no idea what made him decide to take his bandages off. Zoro sat on the steps with him, the discarded white cloth pooling at their feet, and didn’t watch as Sanji stared at the exposed flesh. He sighed, mumbled something Zoro couldn’t make out, and reached into his pocket for cigarettes.

He had it down now, Zoro knew, but he took the cook’s lighter from him. Sanji raised an eyebrow but didn’t question the silent aid being given, leaning in (just a little closer than he needed to, perhaps) until the tip of his cigarette glowed orange in the evening’s darkness.

“Thought you weren’t going to do that again,” he said, quiet voice slipping out along with a faint wisp of smoke.

Zoro shrugged, yawned. “I changed my mind.” He crossed his arms and closed his eyes and rested his head on the cook’s shoulder. “I’m taking a nap.”

“Awful late for a nap,” he murmured.

“Just don’t wake me up.”

Sanji snorted. “If you want to cuddle with me, you could just say so.”

“I’m _sleeping_.”

Sanji grinned, smoked, watched the rest of the crew while he listened to breathing of the swordsman beside him. All he could do was enjoy this, for however long was left.

“Hey.” Zoro’s words were muffled as he turned his head a little, pressed his face into the cook’s suit jacket, but Sanji could hear them well enough. “I love you, too.”

It would always be worth it.

* * *

Days later, as the crew filed out of the galley after lunch, Zoro was stopped by a sudden firm grip on his haramaki. He glared over his shoulder, “I had dish duty yesterday.”

“Shut the fuck up and come here.”

He did, with an obligatory roll of his eyes,  and as soon as the door was closed he had Sanji’s left hand thrust in his face. “…What?”

“Look.”

“ _What_?”

“ _Look_.” 

“I’m looking!”

An exasperated noise and then, “Look at my thumb.”

He did, and it still took him long enough that Sanji was grinding his teeth by the time he realized, frowning, “It’s longer.”

It was growing back.

They looked at each other, Zoro taking note of all the emotions at war in the cook’s expression, a question hanging unvoiced between him until Sanji couldn’t take it any longer.

“What does this mean for you?”

Zoro didn’t know, and Sanji knew that, and both of them tried not to seem too hopeful. “I guess we’ll find out.”

What happens, happens.


End file.
